


Carambole

by zetsubonna



Series: Z vs Marvel 616 [1]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bisexual Steve Rogers, In a Z Fic, M/M, Psychology, Show Me Your Dick Steve, Slow Burn, Social Issues, What the fuck even?, just a couple of dudes being gay, just a couple of dudes being guys, just a couple of guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-17 08:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13072761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna
Summary: They shared rooms on trips, slept three feet apart on beds that were too small for their frames, and maybe it was because sharing a larger, more comfortable bed would mean touching. They talked half the night in those tiny motel beds. Half the time they bathed with the door open so they wouldn’t have to stop talking. They talked while they shaved and brushed their teeth, but they didn’t do much more than brush biceps while they stood at the sink.Sam kept up his reading, though, and kept coming across a term that hit him where he lived and made him clench his teeth until he noticed and let it go.Skin hunger.





	1. Blind Draw

From their first time working together, Sam and Steve’s handshakes started at the shoulder. One hand on the shoulder, the other reaching across, unconsciously standing back over a foot to maintain a respectful distance. They got closer, eventually, until they started to end in a hug that was less an embrace than a pressing of chests and occasional slap on the back with their arms tucked between them to keep their hips from bumping together.

They shared rooms on trips, slept three feet apart on beds that were too small for their frames, and maybe it was because sharing a larger, more comfortable bed would mean touching. They talked half the night in those tiny motel beds. Half the time they bathed with the door open so they wouldn’t have to stop talking. They talked while they shaved and brushed their teeth, but they didn’t do much more than brush biceps while they stood at the sink.

Sam kept up his reading, though, and kept coming across a term that hit him where he lived and made him clench his teeth until he noticed and let it go.

 _Skin hunger_. 

So one day,  _fuck it_ , Sam gave Steve a real hug, and Steve didn’t stiffen up. He felt relaxed, like they’d done it a hundred times already, and that was the ice broken. They didn’t hug in front of people, Sam wasn’t ready to bridge that particular gap, but when they said goodbye between times they’d spend together, a hug with a solid squeeze and two quick pats between the shoulders became their new normal.

 

“You smell good,” Steve said the first time Sam hugged him for a hello. “New aftershave?”

“Same one,” Sam said, amused. “I guess it’s because I just got out of the shower.”

Steve grunted and shrugged, grinning, and they racked the balls on his pool table. Sam picked the music while Steve broke, so it was Marvin, Aretha, The Temptations, Al Green, low but filling the room, making it cozy.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Steve said, looking at the table in the careful way he did when he was avoiding eye contact to ask a sensitive question. “What you’ve been reading lately.”

“A lot of  _Psychology Today_ ,” Sam said, watching his body language, the way his shoulders shifted as he sank a solid and lined up another shot. “Some news magazines. Blogs. You?”

“Comic books,” Steve said, tilting his head and half closing one eye. “Kaku’s newest’s been on my nightstand for about a month, but I haven’t cracked it.”

“Let me know if it’s good,” Sam said. “Hell, it’s probably great. Give it to me when you finish.”

“Of course,” Steve said, finishing up after three good shots in a row and stepping back to let Sam at it.

Sam could hear the way Steve held his breath that he was working up the nerve for another question. He let the silence settle, let Steve collect his thoughts. He sank two stripes in the quiet, humming with satisfaction in between.

“You seeing anybody?”

Sam didn’t look up. He rolled his tongue between his lips, assessed the table. “Not at the moment. You?”

“Working up my nerve,” Steve said. “Still feel five feet tall.”

“You think you’ll ever get past that?” Sam asked. A third good shot. He might at least give Steve a run for his money.

“No idea,” Steve said, lips curving in a brief smile. “How old were you when you hit six feet? Fifteen?”

“About,” Sam said. “Seventeen, maybe. Got a lot of attention, not all of it good.”

Quiet, while Steve thought about that. Sam wondered if he could clear the table without letting Steve get another shot in. It was rare, but it wouldn’t be the first time. The more they practiced, the better he got, especially watching and copying Steve’s techniques.

“What was the topic this month?” Steve asked after Sam finished sinking a fourth ball and started circling the table to look for a potential fifth. It didn’t seem likely. He hadn’t given himself any obvious good angles.

“Stress,” Sam said. “Systematic sociological causes of anxiety. Long term impacts on physical and mental health. I can lend it to you.”

“I think I’m more up for articles than a book,” Steve said. “You still dog earing?”

“And lurking,” Sam said, nodding. “Collecting threads. I can pass you those, too, if you want.”

“Sure.”

“But, I’d say,” Sam leaned in and measured the cue stick against his hand a few times, frowning at the ball. “There’s something else on your mind. Gonna share?”

“I like the hugs,” Steve said, and it was awkward and blurted and Sam almost lost his concentration. “I don’t know why you started doing it, but I’m glad.”

Sam hummed thoughtfully and leaned a little closer to the table. “Theory that men seek out physical violence to compensate for a lack of touch stimulation. Made sense to me.”

Steve exhaled. “Quarter inch to the left.”

“Let me feel it out,” Sam muttered without heat, adjusting his shot anyway.

“It’s a full contact business,” Steve said.

“Can’t put all your needs in one place,” Sam said. “Spread it out. That’s why we have social networks.”

Steve sighed softly, and Sam took the shot. It sank with a satisfying thunk.

“Sometimes you’re the only person who touches me for days that isn’t trying to break anything.”

Sam laughed softly. “That’s your whole life story, isn’t it?”

“Feels like it.”

There wasn’t a sixth shot. It was too far to one side and would take too many ricochets to hit. Sam tried anyway. It was close.

“I can relate.”

Steve leaned over the table, but he only took out one ball when he could easily have made two. Sam read the tension in his back.

“You’re still holding on to something,” he said. “Not ready?”

“No,” Steve said in a big breath, squinting as he moved to take a second shot.

“In your own time,” Sam said easily, flicking the stereo remote to The Commodores.

Steve grunted. Sam wondered if it was repression or just bashfulness. He’d wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Michio Kaku](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michio_Kaku) would have a blast trying to work out theoretical physics in the 616.
> 
> Marvin Gaye, [Trouble Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbHeNkqRWtI)  
> Aretha Franklin, [Bridge Over Troubled Water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9-yfeA2JZs)  
> The Temptations, [I Wish It Would Rain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-itA2rv8p4)  
> Al Green, [You Ought To Be With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFcYPFoOjBA)  
> The Commodores, [Say Yeah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AM3arcIHcik)
> 
>  **Carambole** : A style of billiards played on a pocketless table. Also called carom billiards. Used here as a bad joke about playing a game with only sticks and balls.  
>  **Blind Draw** : (General billiards term) A method used to determine pairings or bracketing of players in tournaments that assures totally random placement or pairing of contestants.


	2. Snookered

They sat on the couch with Sam’s music going on the stereo. It was raining outside, the steady kind that came in a little sideways and pelted the windows as well as the roof, so Steve’s perpetually cracked window had a towel on the floor underneath it.

Sam was reading the Kaku book Steve hadn’t been able to start. Steve was reading one of Sam’s back issues of  _Psychology Today_ , engrossed in an article about the overlap of modern soldiers’ struggles with traumatic brain injury and post-traumatic stress disorder.

Steve had a sweating bottle of Boylan’s Black Cherry on the table on his end of the couch, while Sam had an insulated cup with the biggest latte he could order, three-quarters full and quietly steaming.

There was a solid wall between them, the whole middle cushion, a huge bowl of salted popcorn balanced on it. They ate at intervals, but never reached for the snack at the same time, never brushed hands.

“Why didn’t you put butter on it?” Sam asked, in a lulling instrumental interlude.

“I didn’t want to get it on your magazine,” Steve said, not looking up.

Sam sighed and put the book down on the arm of the sofa, hauling himself to his feet. “It’s dry.”

“You have a drink,” Steve said.

Sam huffed quietly and took the popcorn to the kitchen.

Steve suppressed a smirk as soon as Sam’s back was turned.

Sam came back a little while after the microwave beeped with the butter melted, carrying the popcorn in one hand and a bottle of Steve’s fancy pop in the other, setting the bowl on the couch and putting his new drink on a fresh coaster with a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge on it.

“Coffee doesn’t go with popcorn?” Steve asked slyly.

“You know damned well it doesn’t,” Sam said, putting the lid on his thermal mug before he sat down and twisted the top off the bottle. “You’re punishing me for not bringing doughnuts.”

“Would I do that?”

Sam reached across the freshly buttered popcorn to punch Steve in the arm. Steve snickered.

“Are you between chapters?”

“I needed to clear my head for a minute,” Sam admitted. “It’s not that the explanations are hard, it’s trying to reconcile everything he’s saying with the weird shit we see in the field.”

“That’s how I felt with the last one,” Steve said, glancing at the magazine article. “Where would I find historical perspective on PTSD interactions with mustard gas?”

“I’ll look around,” Sam offered. “Your dad?”

Steve shrugged a little, then nodded. “Shell shock isn’t new.”

“It’s not,” Sam agreed. “But it’s over-examined in soldiers. Abused kids and people in bad neighborhoods get it, too.”

“Makes sense,” Steve murmured, sitting back again and taking a handful of popcorn. He made a pleased sound after he put it in his mouth and Sam was tempted to punch him again.

He shoved instead, solid. His hand stayed on Steve’s arm longer. Steve made chuckling sounds with his mouth full.

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he paused, remembering.

“You ask that girl out yet?”

Steve swallowed and reached for his drink. “No. You found somebody?”

“Wasn’t looking,” Sam said. “It comes when it does.”

Steve hummed his agreement.

“Thanks.”

“For the butter?”

“Yeah.”

Sam shoved him again.

Steve shoved back, then had to grab the popcorn to keep it from tipping over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shell shock](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shell_shock) really isn't a new concept.
> 
> [This](https://www.rainrainapp.com/) should help you create your own mood for this scene. Maybe play it with a collection of 70s soul music on YouTube to get the full effect. (I use it for sleeping.)
> 
> [Steve's soda](https://www.boylanbottling.com/product/black-cherry/). I maintain that someone with his metabolism would be a sugar junkie. Cane sugar soda is vastly superior to corn syrup.
> 
>  **Snookered** : (Snooker) The condition of incoming player's cue ball position when he cannot shoot in a straight line and contact all portions of an on ball directly facing the cue ball (because of balls not "on" that block the path.


	3. Balance Point

“You’re making the face again,” Sharon said.

“Which face is it this time?” Steve asked, not looking up from his tablet.

“The youth have come up with new words for which I am lacking context,” she quipped. “What is it this time, ancient mariner?”

“I’m once again trying to figure out the non-Euclidean geometry of the sexual and romantic orientation spectra,” Steve said. “Don’t laugh.”

“I can’t help it,” Sharon said, grinning, stealing his coffee cup and then making a face when it turned out to actually be his coffee. “Does the serum keep the teeth in your head?”

“Yes,” Steve said. “The properties of super soldier serum, in its original formula, allow me to subsist entirely on one tenth of a year’s corn syrup production from Illinois.”

“I knew it,” she said. “That’s your dark secret. You’re a walking farm subsidy.”

“Can you explain this to me in old people words?” Steve asked her, taking his coffee back and handing her the other cup. “Two milks, half a packet of Splenda.”

“Grown up coffee,” Sharon retorted. “What’s throwing you?”

“Having more or less accepted that bisexual and pansexual are two different flavors of equally complex vanilla ice cream,” Steve said, “I now find myself lost in the nuance of romantic orientations, specifically, what the fuck does ‘queerplatonic’ mean?”

“You’re overthinking it,” Sharon said. “Which is fine, it’s you.”

“Naturally,” Steve said, raising his eyebrow to indicate that she had not actually answered his question.

“I don’t mean overthinking is you,” Sharon said. “I mean you and Sam qualify.”

Steve considered, then frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s accurate.”

“Name someone other than Sam who knows more about you than I do,” Sharon prompted.

Steve pressed his lips together, then exhaled. “Bucky.”

“Bucky and I are tied,” Sharon said. “You tell Sam things you won’t tell us.”

“I  _listen_  to Sam,” Steve protested, but he was wrinkling his forehead and sipping his coffee. “So, more than friends, but not sexually interested.”

“Not  _romantically_ interested,” Sharon corrected. “Platonic sex is a thing.”

Steve shook his head in disbelief. “That’s not real.”

“More things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” Sharon said, taking her coffee in three solid gulps and draining half the cup. 

“Sex is everywhere anymore,” Steve sighed. “Okay, so it’s a thing, but it’s not a thing for me. What would you call it if you were romantically attracted to somebody you didn’t necessarily want to have sex with, then?”

“Don’t you have a wiki for this?” Sharon asked, reaching for the tablet. “I don’t know. Oh.” She scrolled. “You’re on the Asexuality Org thing again. Did you finally find something you like better than TV Tropes?”

“TV Tropes is the best dissection of media on the Internet,” Steve said, only mildly defensive as a side dish to amusement. “I was trying to find words that made sense.”

“You like words and you’re determined that things will eventually make sense,” Sharon handed the tablet back. “I don’t have a sociology degree. Ask Sam.”

“Sam’s an autodidact,” Steve said. “He doesn’t have a sociology degree.”

“Sam has thirty-seven doctorates,” Sharon said. “At least one of them is in sociology.”

“It’s an honora-” Steve paused and pouted at her. “He really should go back to school.”

“He’d get bored,” Sharon said. “But he could get a master’s in his sleep. The man eats books.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Steve realized. “Why does it always take me so long?”

“Because you talk about him like sunshine comes out of his ass,” Sharon said. “And hell, when he’s flying in the right direction, it does.”

“Are you jealous?” Steve asked, peering at her intently.

“I’m not,” Sharon assured him, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “But it’s cute how you get flustered when someone calls attention to how devoted you are to your two best guys. It’s fine when  _you_  wax rhapsodic, but you don’t ever notice yourself doing it.”

“Best guy means boyfriend,” Steve said, brow furrowing under her lightly scritching fingers. “That was on purpose, wasn’t it?”

“I listen to your old man slang on occasion,” Sharon drawled. “You don’t use it as much as you used to, but I pick up on it.”

“Sam is not my boyfriend,” Steve said, and his tone made Sharon’s eyebrows raise.

“Do you want him to be?” she asked.

“Teasing is going too far,” Steve warned, brows arched and mouth slightly upturned at the corners.

“You have a crush on Sam,” Sharon marveled. “That’s why you’re researching.”

“I don’t think that’s the right word,” Steve protested. “It’s not a crush, it’s not a bromance, there’s not a word for it, that’s why I keep looking.”

“So are you bisexual or just biromantic?” she asked. “This is wonderful. Does Sam know or am I ahead of him for once?”

Steve sighed and dragged his hand down his face. “Sharon.”

“He doesn’t know!” Sharon put her coffee cup down and took Steve’s tablet out of his hand so she could hug him. “I get to know something!”

“I tell you things!” Steve protested, though he rubbed her back and didn’t tense up at the hug. “I tell you all kinds of things.”

“Have you ever come out to anyone else?” she asked.

“No,” Steve said. “I’ve barely come out to myself and I knew I could feel any kind of way about anybody ages ago.”

“Well, baby steps,” Sharon said. “You know you don’t have to tell him, if you don’t want to. I know you tell him everything, but you might hang on to this one.”

“I think so,” Steve said. “I think I won’t, I mean. How would it even come up? Besides, he wouldn’t date me. There’s a lot of reasons, it just wouldn’t work.”

“And he’s important to you,” Sharon leaned into his side and rested her head on his chest. “You wouldn’t want to spoil it.”

“Things are complicated enough in my life without running all around trying to be polyamorous and queerplatonic and demisexually quoiromantic and whatever the hell else is going on in my head,” Steve said, reaching for his coffee again.

“Don’t drink that stuff,” Sharon scolded. “Come sit on the couch with me. I’ll kiss you until you feel all your manly stoicism kicking back in.”

“Don’t get me started,” he said. “Christ, emotionally repressive hypermasculine bullshit was yesterday’s wiki surfing hellhole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wiki surfing is the best and worst thing about the internet.
> 
> [Lexicon](http://wiki.asexuality.org/Lexicon) at Asexuality.org's wiki
> 
> I can't find solid evidence of Sam's actual education level on his 616 profile, because of that Snap Wilson thing erasing and rewriting his personal history and then being proven false and other cosmic cube nonsense. So I have decided that Sam, being an established, canonical autodidact, taught himself conflict resolution and mediation, and his community service work was so exemplary that someone gave him an honorary degree in social work that he uses in his civilian pursuits, hence the social work credit in his bio.
> 
> Steve wistfully thinks that Sam should go back to school and get a master's in counseling. Sam thinks Steve should go the fuck back to art school and get a BFA in illustration, so they're even on that score.
> 
>  **Balance Point** : (General) The point on a cue at which it would remain level if held by a single support, usually about 18" from the butt end of the cue.


	4. Bridge

"Tell me something I don't know," Steve said.

They were jogging. Steve, on a cool down, was letting Sam set the pace, and Sam was taking his time, which meant he wanted to talk.

"Fifty percent of adults say they have one close friend," Sam said, "But the average number of non-family members in a social support network is nine."

Steve hummed thoughtfully. "I can see that."

"Can you think of nine?" Sam asked.

Steve cracked his neck from one side to the other. "Not really. Most of my friends are exgirlfriends, aside from you and Bucky."

"I got you, Luke, and T'Challa," Sam said. "Sometimes Barnes, when he isn't on my damn nerves."

Steve snorted a laugh.

"Goes back to that other article," Sam stopped in front of the bench where they'd left their water bottles, handing Steve the blue one. "Men look for haptic stimulation from fighting, because we isolate ourselves socially."

"Or we put our emotional and physical needs on the women in our lives," Steve said. "Because we don't allow ourselves any other outlets."

"You went down a wiki hole," Sam said, then tipped his head back and squirted the red water bottle into his mouth, rinsing it out and spitting before actually taking a drink.

"You send me down half of them," Steve said, shrugging. "I can't keep up otherwise."

"Don't start," Sam warned.

"I'll stop when you stop," Steve said.

"You could at least audit. Get some studio time."

"Because me sitting in a class full of nineteen year olds with dyed hair and nicotine stains on their fingers is gonna be real productive for everybody involved."

"Grow a beard," Sam suggested. "Let your hair grow out. They'll think you're a grad student."

"I could wear a trench coat and a fake mustache, I'm still in every history book on the planet."

"Kids these days don't read history books."

"No, but they watch the news." Steve rolled his shoulders. "What about community college?"

"I have other things to do."

"You can take time for yourself."

"Says the man who wears blue shirts with white stars when he's off duty."

"I can quit anytime I want," Steve joked.

"You can try," Sam said dryly. "But I'll just drag your ass back, and you won't even fight me."

"What if I went with you?"

That gave Sam pause. "To school."

"What if I did? It's a hell of a lot more useful than an art degree."

"How are we paying for this?" Sam asked. "Student loans? Besides, we're too old."

"There's not a way in Hell you couldn't get scholarships."

"There's no Avengers scholarship, Steve."

"I'll call Tony right now," Steve threatened, reaching toward the cellphone tucked into his running pants. "We'll have one by tomorrow."

"I'm not taking Stark's money."

"Neither would I, but I made my point."

Sam sighed.

"I'd go with you," Steve repeated. "Every class. We could do homework together. You'd probably have to tutor me, but I'd work my ass off."

"If I say I'll think about it, can we get back to our run?"

"Three more miles," Steve said. "Then I'm gonna need a sandwich."

"We can go to Panera," Sam acquiesced.

"I would rather eat sawdust," Steve said.

"We'll find a damn food truck." Sam sighed.

"That's better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The article](http://news.gallup.com/poll/10891/americans-satisfied-number-friends-closeness-friendships.aspx) where I got the nine friends number.
> 
> [The article](https://www.livescience.com/16879-close-friends-decrease-today.html) where I got the one close friend number.
> 
>  **Bridge** : (General) The hand configuration that holds and guides the shaft-end of the cue during play.


	5. Diamonds

"Remind me why we're standing in this line."

"I'm trying vegan again."

"Steve," Sam groaned. "Why do you subject me to your food nonsense?"

"It's one lunch," Steve said. "What's the point of being in New York if you don't eat everything?"

"Vegan gives me gas."

"I brought medicine."

"I feel like I've been led astray."

"I'm buying."

"You're buying me some damn tacos when this goes awry."

"Tacos?"

" _Tacos_ , man." Sam gave Steve an impatient look.

"Why are we standing in this line?" Steve asked. 

* * *

 "Tacos were the better choice." Steve agreed, licking sauce from his thumb.

"The vegan stuff could have been okay. Just try it without me, first."

"Will do."

"We doing dessert?"

"How long have you known me?"

"Ice cream or chocolate?" Sam asked.

"Doughnuts."

"I was willing to indulge you."

"You were right about tacos, you're always right about doughnuts."

"I think it's the right season for apple cider at Carpe."

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

"I'm going back."

"You're on your own. I can't do more than two."

"You sure?"

"The warm ones are better than the ice cream ones."

"Smells like it."

"I'm going to see if I can't find some tea around here," Sam said, looking for a boba truck. 

* * *

 "So, you're buying a subscription," Sam said.

"What to?"

"This service online that lets you take independent adult learning classes. I've done five already, you'll like it."

"Which five?" Steve asked.

"Cognitive behavioral therapy, the science of flight, science of decision making, emotional intelligence, and the art of debate."

"Do they do political science and physics?"

"Of course. They even have food stuff."

"I'm sold."

Sam pulled out his phone to send Steve the link.

"I went down the hole again," Steve said, clicking through to the download.

"What this time?"

"Toxic masculinity."

"I'm telling you, man. Macho culture is killing people." Sam nodded his head a little as he spoke, both eyebrows raised.

"It's insidious," Steve said.

"It's everywhere. And you don't even think about it. I've told myself to man up and stop getting in my feelings at least five times this week, and I know better."

"What were you upset about?"

"You nagging me about school, first off," Sam said, giving him a pointed frown.

"I'm sorry."

"You mean well. It's just, it makes me think about my mother."

"I didn't think of that."

"I don't know why you wouldn't."

Steve sighed. "My mother never thought I'd go to college. Dirt poor in the thirties? I was lucky to get into art school."

"My mother would have wanted me to do something with myself. And I'm doing something, I'm sure she'd have been proud of what I'm doing, but I think she'd have wanted me to go to school, too."

"You can do it, Sam."

"I can't decide if I'm busy or afraid of failure."

"Maybe both?"

"Probably."

"That was pretty heavy," Steve said.

"Almost makes me want to punch something to get my face back together," Sam said, smiling wryly.

"You don't need to."

"I know I don't. It makes me think about the kids, too, you know? I'm a role model. I tell them to go, but I don't go myself? What kind of front is that?"

"We can find the money."

"But can we find the time? Between assholes trying to blow up the world and gangs having turf wars, I'm not exactly keeping a regular schedule."

"Sam Wilson is at least as important as Falcon."

"Don't blow smoke up my ass, _Cap,_ " Sam scoffed at Steve's hypocrisy.

"I would never."

"What's that thing Sharon said?"

"Get back to manly stoicism?" Steve grinned.

"That's it. Let's go get the gloves from your place so we can play catch. Just wing fastballs at each other until I can pretend I didn't say shit."

"Sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Carpe Donut](https://foursquare.com/v/carpe-donut-nyc/5169892c498e0522481eea97) is an actual Brooklyn food truck.  
> [Five](https://foursquare.com/top-places/brooklyn/best-food-trucks) of the top 15 food trucks in Brooklyn, as rated by FourSquare, are Mexican food/taco trucks.
> 
> I feel like superheroes would get a lot of use out of shit like Khan Academy and The Great Courses. Their schedules are bullshit.
> 
>  **Diamonds** : (General) Inlays or markings on the table rails that are used as reference or target points. The diamonds are essential for the utilization of numerous mathematical systems employed by carom and pocket games players.


	6. Cushion

“Of course you started with dessert,” Sam said, taking a seat at his dining table.

“Do you want breakfast or not?” Steve asked.

“It looks relatively safe,” Sam said skeptically. “Did you wash everything before you cooked it?”

“Did I- Sam. If you don’t want to eat my cooking, the cooking that I worked on  _all night_ -”

“…This fruit tart is actually good.”

“Of course it’s good.”

“Did you really make this?”

“I can read a recipe, Sam.”

“It has cardamom in it. And- nutmeg? You used  _spices?_ ”

“Are you impugning my heritage?”

“Your people make decent potatoes,” Sam said, picking off a blueberry and popping it into his mouth. “And excellent alcohol. Pastries are usually other kinds of white people.”

“My mother could bake,” Steve said. “I can probably figure out her apple bread recipe, if I try hard enough.”

“If you can taste the difference between cinnamon and nutmeg, theoretically.”

“You’re being very rude. Try the danish. I cheated on the bread part but I made the filling.”

“Okay, so you’re not hopeless.”

“No manners at all.”

“Does this mean you’re going to start feeding yourself sometimes and not eating out eight meals a week?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Wait, is this an all yolk omelet?”

“I had to find something to do with the yolks after I used the whites in everything else.”

“This is a damn good omelet, Steve.”

“Talking with your mouth full? I did something right.”

“Sit down and eat, would you? Stop hovering, you’re making me nervous.”

“Since when do you put orange juice in a pitcher?” Steve asked. “Usually drink it right out of the carton.”

“Since it’s not orange juice,” Sam said. “I made mimosas.”

“Well, damn.”

“I figured if your cooking was terrible, I could at least wash the taste out of my mouth.”

“Making it real hard not to take offense, Wilson.”

“It’s definitely not terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“So, what made you decide to take cooking classes first? Besides your bottomless pit stomach.”

“I realized that not knowing how to do a basic household chore was a piece of garbage internalized thing based on home cooking as a woman’s role, and I like food.”

“Life changing shit.”

“Life changing shit.” Steve poured himself a glass. “I learned how to sew ages ago, no excuse for not picking up cooking. Knitting, I got in the Army.”

“Supply thing?”

“Had to keep ourselves in hats and socks.”

“Doubt they still do that.”

“Probably not. Try the sausage. I picked it up from a new place.”

“Wouldn’t have pork sausage at your deli.”

“No. I think it’s good, though. Actually spicy, not just white people spicy.”

“You’ve been building up a tolerance.”

“I’m working up to hotter kimchi.”

“A noble goal.” Sam finished his half of the omelet and went back to the fruit tart. “If you figure out lunch, I’ll make sangria.”

“White or red?”

“Either.”

“Challenge accepted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Courses offers classes on [both pastries and spices](https://www.thegreatcoursesplus.com/category/food-wine?tn=Food+%26+Wine_11_12). Also wine.
> 
>  **Cushion** : (General) The cloth-covered rubber which borders the inside of the rails on carom and pocket billiard tables; together the cushions form the outer perimeter of the basic playing surface.


	7. Gather Shot

“History of Brooklyn,” Steve said, pouring himself a fourth glass of Sam’s red sangria.

“How did we get here?” Sam asked.

“By way of Chelsea,” Steve said.

“I’m still lost.” Sam was so full of Steve’s latest experiment- Greek lemon garlic chicken salad with home made Asiago cheese bread because he’d gone so far off the deep end that he now kept a sourdough starter in the back of his refrigerator- that Steve’s conversational tangents were actually catching him off guard.

“I went on another wiki dive,” Steve said.

“So we’re in Brooklyn because of Chelsea. Why were we in Chelsea?”

“Homophobia.”

“I can’t track any of this. Start over.”

“Toxic masculinity exists at all levels of socioeconomic class, manifesting differently based on the greater culture that exists there.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Chelsea is the gay district now, right?”

“Sure.”

“In  _fucking_ Manhattan- no offense.”

“Harlem is, historically, an island of sanity in the cesspit of Manhattan.”

“Always was.”

“Carry on.”

“So,” Steve began again. “The Stonewall is in Manhattan, and Chelsea is in Manhattan, but  _Brooklyn_ was working class queer before Manhattan.”

“I’m with you now but I’m not sure where you’re going.”

“DUMBO was queer people, poor people, and immigrants, when I grew up. Working class, everybody was working class, by which I mean we were all poor.”

“Right, okay.”

“I’m in wiki hell,” Steve says. “I’m trying to research the impact of the AIDS crisis on the New York art scene, because I don’t know a damn thing about post-war art history-”

“See, this background information is what I was missing.”

“Sorry. I’m trying to figure out how the fuck we got from Brooklyn to Manhattan-”

“I’m sure there’s a book about it.”

“Probably.”

“Continue your thought.”

“And I start to get this inkling that maybe Harlem is why, because of the jazz scene and the blurred edges of the queer community-”

“You keep using that word.”

“I’ll get to that, I promise.”

“Noted, go on.”

“I’m taping things together in my notebook to try and get a picture of everything that happened between the War and Stonewall so that I’ve got the historical context for the eighties-”

“Sure.”

“The entire Red Scare makes me sick.” Steve snarled.

“Well, you’d have made yourself a pariah in about fifteen minutes.” Sam hid a fond smile behind his hand.

“Because I’d have been mad as Hell.”

“Naturally.”

“And they had that  _fake_ , which I’m still trying to wrap my head around.”

“You and every historian who wants an interview.”

“So I’m seeing these parallels, threads that tie directly from the Red Scare to Reagan, and I’m not at all enthused about any of this-”

“Didn’t you vote for Roosevelt?”

“ _Twice_. Forty and forty-four. Ma voted for him in thirty-two and before that when he was the governor. Back when we had a functional unionist movement in this country.”

“I love how mad you get about the death of American socialism.”

“Because you’re just as mad as I am.”

“Unionization would have been the path to the middle class for a lot of Black people,” Sam said dryly. “That’s why it had to die.”

“And that was in part Roosevelt’s backroom cock up concession to the Southern Democrats and I know that  _now_.”

“Hindsight and historical context.”

“Exactly. Damn it, where was I?”

“Brooklyn, Chelsea, Reagan, AIDS.”

“Thank you. So I’m trying to figure out how the hell all the queer people I grew up with ended up in Chelsea, because when I left DUMBO it was still blue collar queer men and at least half a dozen trans women on my block alone, and we were all poor as church mice, and I always think of Manhattan as being rich.”

“Except for Harlem, of course.”

“Island of sanity. But I’m missing so many  _details_ , Sam, because hardly anybody lived to tell the stories. Reagan and his evangelical crony capitalist bullies let a whole generation of queer people get wiped out in a massive public health crisis, and nobody intervened because the Red Scare had them equating queers with anti-American subversives and not just Arnie and Michael down the street, sharing the flat over the kosher deli.”

“Why do I feel like those are actual people?”

“Because they  _were_. Toxic masculinity and dogmatic bigotry and the leftovers from the same eugenicist bullshit that made me turn myself into a goddamn science project killed  _my best friends_ , my neighbors, my  _people_ , because they were poor and immigrant and queer and other and less than, and everybody just let it happen because nobody gave a goddamn, because the existence of queer men living normal lives threatened their understanding of humanity, and I’m so mad I can’t stand it, and I just fucking  _slept_ through the whole thing.”

“So you tore yourself out  of a wiki hell and slow roasted two entire chickens and made a salad big enough for ten people because you were angry about the twentieth century.”

“After I busted through three sandbags, sure.”

“Still not sure you’re allowed to use the q word, Steve.”

Steve took a deep breath, then gave Sam a steady look. “There’s more than a hundred reasons I was four-F, Sam. Not all of them are things I talk about.”

Sam took a long drink from his own glass of sangria. “Bisexual?”

“Short version, sure. And before the serum, I never had a girl.”

“Guys, though.”

Steve looked toward the ceiling, wrinkling his nose and shrugging one shoulder, and Sam nodded.

“Complicated?”

“Yeah. We’re still good?”

“Of course.”

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Sam tried to fathom the concept of the orange cardamom sorbetto Steve had brought him for dessert, but the idea of eating another bite made him slightly queasy.

“If you told me those nasty theories about Bucky got started because someone noticed the neighborhood listed in my bio and started some ‘queers are pedophiles’ crap, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Sam said. “Can’t think of anyplace it’s ever been easy.”

Steve worried his bottom lip with his teeth, his eyebrow going up.

Sam’s head tilted to the side in a half shrug.

Steve nodded. “Complicated.”

“Very.” Sam got up from his chair and stretched. “Let’s see if we can’t make room in the fridge for all the leftovers. I’m gonna be eating this for the rest of the week.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, man. Means I don’t have to cook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Steve's salad.](https://cafedelites.com/greek-lemon-garlic-chicken-salad/)  
>  The [sorbet](https://www.lovefood.com/recipes/59458/blood-orange-and-cardamom-sorbet-recipe) I've had Sam eat in about six fics now.
> 
>  **Gather Shot** : (Carom games) A shot on which appropriate technique and speed are employed to drive one or more balls away from the other(s) in such a manner that when the stroke is complete, the balls have come back together closely enough to present a comparatively easy scoring opportunity for the next shot.


	8. Corner-Hooked

“You’re still not blocking high enough on your left,” Steve said. “Get that arm up.”

“I don’t know why I do that,” Sam grumbled. “I’m more or less ambidextrous or I wouldn’t fly right.”

“It’s easier for left-handed people to be truly ambidextrous, though.”

“Why do you know that?” Sam asked.

“Baseball.” Steve shrugged.

“I should have guessed.”

“Your follow through on your right’s really smooth, though,” Steve said. “You’re putting your shoulder into it.”

“Should get you in the ring with me,” Sam said. “Go a couple rounds. You can just block, if you don’t want to knock me out by accident.”

“I don’t think I could knock you out unless I was really trying,” Steve said. “You take punches about as good as you throw them.”

Sam put another dozen hits into the sandbag. Steve held it, watching.

“I never told anybody,” Sam said. “I guess I still haven’t said the words.”

“Just you and me here.”

“I’m bi. I haven’t been with a guy in a long time, but it’s not like it wears off.”

“It definitely doesn’t.”

“It wasn’t anything serious. Just some kissing. I liked it, though. Just couldn’t deal with it at the time. Too fragile.”

“You seemed a little bent when I said queer,” Steve said.

“Not used to it,” Sam said, hefting a solid punch. “Makes me flinch.”

“It’s the word I prefer,” Steve said. “I thought about bi and pan, but they don’t fit right.”

“I’ll deal,” Sam said. “Don’t like that I have to. Not because you can’t use the word, it annoys me that I’m uncomfortable.”

“Hard enough putting it out there,” Steve agreed. “I’m not comfortable either. I’ve only told you and Sharon.”

“How’d she take it?”

Steve snorted. “She was delighted, in no small part because I told her before I told you.”

Sam cracked a grin. “You tell me everything.”

“Eventually,” Steve agreed.

“Coming from you, it reminds me of a slogan,” Sam said. “Not gay as in happy, but queer as in fuck you.”

Steve laughed. “Sounds about right.”

“You don’t talk about the eugenics shit much,” Sam said.

“Not something I like to think about,” Steve said. “Ableist, anti-Catholic, anti-Irish, anti-immigrant, anti-poor, anti-queer- wanted me forcibly sterilized or dead. Not just us, either. Black people, too, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“It was a little quieter here by the time the Nazis started actually doing it,” Steve said. “But people here were still talking about it. Dehumanizing.”

“I don’t say it much,” Sam said, glancing at Steve and then putting his eyes back down to avoid contact. “But I envy your optimism sometimes. I got a misanthropic streak.”

“I’m sure waking up with about ten times as much privilege as I had when I conked out doesn’t hurt,” Steve said. “You don’t owe anybody a good attitude.”

“I want to have one. I want to believe in the dream. It’s just hard, some days.”

“I don’t have it every minute, you know. I have bad days.”

“But?”

“But I have a job to do, an example to set. Fake it until you make it, right?”

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” Sam agreed. Then he fell silent, concentrating on punching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Corner-Hooked** : (Pocket games, Snooker) When the corner of a pocket prevents shooting the cue ball in a straight path directly to an object ball, the cue ball is corner-hooked; same as angled.


	9. Nurses

The light of the slowly rising sun made the nearly empty streets look peaceful, liminal. It was something they both liked, seeing the city like this. Sam tucked his earbuds into his pocket when they met up. The first two miles went by in companionable silence.

“What does complicated mean?” he asked when they slowed down.

Steve’s brow wrinkled. “It was 1938.”

Sam huffed quietly. “So you were eighteen. That’s not saying much.”

“There was a bar,” Steve said. “I was eighteen, sure, but I looked fifteen, if that. They didn’t try to ask me for ID, the girl watching the door knew me from the neighborhood. Just let me in.”

Sam listened.

“I felt right, in there,” Steve said. “It was dark. Not smoky, which was good, I would’ve had trouble breathing, but it was early so nobody was relaxed yet. Just coming in off the street, taking their time.”

Sam tried to picture it in his head. Steve, small, slight, putting on a brave face and looking around, alert, ready to defend his right to be in a space if challenged, adrenaline already picking up in anticipation of a fight.

“There wasn’t a lot of talking. There was some slow dancing, which- I never struggled as much, the slow stuff. I’m better on my feet now, but back then, I was all legs.”

Sam could just about picture that, too.

“I went back half a dozen times. One night, there was another guy there, about my age. Came over, offered me his hand. About a foot taller than me. Real good looking guy, a little thin. Hair like Cary Grant. I was glad he didn’t try to talk to me. Don’t think I could have gotten a word out, heart was in my throat.”

“Hard to picture you terrified.”

“Don’t know if terrified’s the word. I was scared, sure. The place had been raided before and I knew it. Went back ‘cause I was stubborn. Let ‘em arrest me, not like things could get any worse. My landlord went to the bar sometimes, he wouldn’t throw me out.”

Sam hummed. They rounded a corner. The sun filtered through the buildings and made him look deep, polished bronze to Steve’s pale gold.

“I’d come, we’d dance, he’d leave, I’d leave a little later. Never talked much. Got his name, eventually. David. No last name. Didn’t ask for mine, either.”

Sam tried to remember being eighteen, the innocence of it. It made him smile a little.

“One night, we were dancing, some girl lit up a cigarette. I started coughing, so we went outside. Stood there, awkward, while I caught my breath, then asked me, real soft, if I wanted to go.”

They paused at a stoplight. Steve’s voice was steady, but it had gotten quieter while he talked.

“After the first time, that was our night. Once every couple of weeks, meet at the bar, drink one scotch, dance until the cigarettes came out, go back to his place. Small as mine, just the one room, but better light from the window when the sun came up. Mattress on the floor, shared washroom at the end of the hall. Clean as a whistle, could always tell he did it that day. Made me feel like I was company. It was nice.”

“Did you ever talk?” Sam asked.

“No,” Steve said, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “And when the war broke out, I started trying to enlist. Don’t know if he kept going back for me, didn’t think about him for a long time.”

Sam thought about that. “And when you did?”

“Cried about it,” Steve said simply. “That’s how I knew being queer was okay. Serum didn’t fix it, couldn’t have been broken.”

They did ten blocks in silence. Coffee scents drifted out of buildings.

“So,” Steve said finally. “What’s complicated?”

“Kid from the neighborhood, Roderick,” Sam said. “Traded comics, traded books. Listened to music together. Had a big crush on him. One night he kissed me and I punched him in the face.”

Steve laughed, startled.

“We acted like nothing happened for a while. I apologized, eventually,” Sam said. “When I got my head out of my ass. He was cool, said he was just trying something, didn’t mean anything by it.”

“But?”

“But, one night, we were both drinking, and I asked him why he never did it again. He laughed, kinda shy, reminded me I’d almost knocked his teeth in the first time, which, you know, fair enough. So I kissed him, and we spent the whole night kissing. Sobered up, never talked about it. Used to get this look on his face sometimes, like he wished  _I’d_ do it again, but I didn’t have the nerve. Too busy trying to put on a tough front, couldn’t deal with it.”

“Whatever happened to that guy?” Steve asked.

“He’s a lawyer,” Sam said with barely suppressed pride. “Deacon in his church, works in the community. Gorgeous wife, four smart kids. My loss, absolutely.”

“Hey, his too,” Steve said. “You’re the Falcon.”

Sam snorted, bumped Steve with his bicep. “Shut up, white devil. Buy me a coffee.”

Steve laughed and got the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Nurses** : (Carom games) Techniques whereby the balls are kept close to the cushions and each other, creating a succession of relatively easy scoring opportunities.


	10. Kick Shot

“I was sitting here,” Sam said, “Waiting on my coffee- good job on the scone, too- and I was thinking about your story.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, glancing at Sam’s face sideways, which was, Sam knew, his guiltiest expression.

“You ghosted that boy.”

“You caught that, huh?” Steve looked at the barista, who was not offering him any escape as the name she was calling was neither Steve nor Sam.

“You went home with him for three years, he didn’t even know your whole name, and then you ghosted his ass.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Steve said.

“Have you ever broken up with anyone?” Sam asked.

There was a pause. Steve looked at the scone.

“Peggy?”

“There were missions.”

“Bernie?”

“She got a job offer out of state.”

“Sharon?”

“She’s an international spy, she does deep cover missions, we feel it out.”

“Steve.”

“I don’t have an excuse,” Steve said. “I’m not afraid of confrontation.”

“You just never want to disappoint anybody whose opinion you’ve decided to care about,” Sam said, folding his arms over his chest. “Christ, you’re a Cancer.”

“You don’t believe in astrology,” Steve muttered.

“Some people live up to their stereotypes.”

Steve looked at the barista again. She was adding five pumps of toffee nut syrup to a medium sized cup. His drink. He would escape soon.

Sam paused for a moment. “That’s everybody, isn’t it?”

“Hm?” Steve raised his eyebrows and looked back at Sam. “Everybody?”

“Every woman you’ve dated. Just the three?”

Steve wrinkled his nose. “Those are the three I had relationships with. I’ve dated a little, fooled around some. Not a lot.”

Sam picked at the scone. “I didn’t notice, I guess. None of my business.”

“I give you a wide berth,” Steve said, trying not to grin. “I learned my lesson about talking to your girlfriends really quickly.”

“I ran into Leila the other day,” Sam said, smirking at Steve’s expression. “She asked me why I was still hanging around your cracker ass.”

“Who knows?” Steve said.

“Latte for Sam?” The barista called. “Toffee nut triple chocolate mocha for Steve?”

“How do you have teeth?” Sam asked as Steve stood up to get the drinks.

“Specially formulated fluoride rinse, six times a day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In her first appearance in the comics, Sam's girlfriend [Leila Taylor](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Leila_Taylor_\(Earth-616\)) was instantly suspicious of Steve as a white man _dressed as a police officer_ looking for Sam. Why the Hell Steve decided to approach Leila disguised as a police officer in the first place, I couldn't tell you.
> 
> Steve really didn't ghost David on purpose. Project Rebirth sucked him into a black hole of confidentiality clauses and quarantine and they basically accepted him in part because of his non-existent family situation, he couldn't exactly tell them he was seeing a guy. David was the first in a line of personal sacrifices Steve has made to be behind the shield. He's generally hesitant, in canon, to be in relationships in the first place and uses the peril of Cap's proximity as justification, so it lines up with what's already there.
> 
>  **Kick Shot** : (General) A shot in which the cue ball banks off a cushion(s) prior to making contact with an object ball or scoring.


	11. Miscue

“You and Roderick,” Steve said, elbow deep in Sam’s sink with dinner dishes.

“Yeah?” Sam’s tone was guarded, his eyes on the dish towel as he dried.

“You kept it real short,” Steve said, overly casual, watching Sam.

“Punched the guy in the face,” Sam said. He put the freshly dried plate carefully into the rack. “Only kissed him once. Gay panic ain’t cute.”

“But you know where he is,” Steve said, watching him more closely, turning toward him a few degrees as he handed him another plate. “Job, wife, kids, church. You kept track of him.”

“Keep track of most of my exes,” Sam said, tilting his head away from Steve, brows going slightly up. “Liked them enough to hang around in the first place, must be good people.”

Steve hummed thoughtfully, taking in his tightened shoulders, his set brow, the care with which he was patting the plate dry.

Sam looked at him, eyes narrowed, jaw cocked to the left. “Is this still about dealing with our internalized bullshit?”

“Hell if I know,” Steve said, softening his voice and shifting his eyes from Sam back to the dishes. “Do we need a topic change?”

“Let’s bury it for a while,” Sam said, rolling his shoulders and resetting his posture. “Starting to get uncomfortable.”

“Understood,” Steve said, putting his hips parallel to the sink again and letting his own shoulders fold in a little. “Is my cooking getting any better?”

“Yeah, it is,” Sam said. “But I think all the salad is just a fun way to show off your knife skills.”

“Not like Cap does a whole lot of stabbing,” Steve quipped.

“Can you imagine?” Sam asked, and when Steve smiled, the attempt at a sinister grin made Sam chuckle.

“It’d be in all the newspapers. Internet.”

“Well, as long as you keep it to vegetables, you’re fine.”

“No fillet of HYDRA?” Steve looked wistful rather than pouting.

“Better not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least he didn't punch Steve in the face. Yet.
> 
>  **Miscue** : (General) A stroke which results in the cue tip contact with cue ball being faulty. Usually the cue tip slides off the cue ball without full transmission of the desired stroke. The stroke usually results in a sharp sound and discoloration of the tip and/or the cue ball at the point of contact.


	12. Rack

“He was lost and is found,” Gideon said in a sly, booming voice.

“We’re on that, huh?” Sam smiled wryly as he came into the church’s reading room. Several volunteers were helping Gideon put away the folding chairs in the wake of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. “I wasn’t lost. I knew where I was.”

“What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t make fun of you for coming around?” Gideon asked, handing Sam a chair.

Sam bumped a second chair closed with his knee and hip and then put the two he was carrying in the stack against the wall, going back for more. “That’s fair.”

“Did you miss me or are you looking for someplace quiet to eat dinner?”

“I wouldn’t say no to Tora’s garlic potatoes,” Sam said. “But nah, I need a pastor.”

“I’ll text her,” Gideon said. “Once we’ve got all this done, we’ll talk on the drive home.”

“That’s a plan.”

* * *

“So this is gonna seem like it’s out of nowhere,” Sam began, watching Gideon’s face from a slight angle. “How do you handle it when kids at your church come out to you?”

“Gently,” Gideon said. “Gently as I can.”

“Not the answer I expected.”

“Don’t be like that,” Gideon admonished. “I’ve mellowed in my age. Besides, I’ve been doing this long enough to see the alternatives.”

Sam tapped his fingers lightly in time with the radio, taking in the way Yolanda Adams’ time shifted over the piano in the song Gideon thought he was being clever every time he snuck it into the list for Sam’s visits.

“A man who loses a child isn’t keen to see anyone else lose theirs,” Gideon said, and Sam rolled his tongue through his lips.

“But how do you really feel?” Sam asked after a long lull.

“God don’t make mistakes,” Gideon said. “If that’s how it is, that’s how He wanted it.”

“That right?” Sam said, quiet.

Gideon’s eyebrow went up and he darted a glance sideways. “This about one of your trainee heroes?”

“Nah,” Sam said. “One of the adults.”

“I see.”

They were quiet long enough that Jonathan Butler took over, and Sam took a moment to appreciate an acoustic with a carefully fingered guitar.

“You know I already know,” Gideon said, giving Sam a reproachful look without taking his eyes from the road. “You ain’t slick. I’ve been your brother all my life.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Every time your boy Roderick was mad at you, you’d hide yourself in your room and listen to your music in the dark. Same thing you’d do when girls didn’t like you.“

Sam snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out the window.

“Went between fits of hating and pitying you, but when nothin’ came of it, I decided it wasn’t my business and tried to forget.”

“I doubt that,” Sam said, turning back to look at him. “You never thought somethin’ was none of your business.”

“Picked that up from you, didn’t I?” Gideon said, smirking.

Sam’s chest and shoulders shook a little. Gideon laughed, too.

“Does Sarah know?” Sam asked.

“Sarah’s got better things to do than gossip about you,” Gideon said. “And so do I. You wanna tell her, tell her.”

“I’m not telling Tora,” Sam said.

“I’m not, either,” Gideon said. “You said you needed a pastor, that makes this confidence.”

Sam grunted approvingly.

“She’s making your potatoes, by the way,” Gideon said. “I swear, she keeps a bag of Yukons in the cabinet just in case you show up.”

“She’s a queen, and if you weren’t good to her, I’d beat your ass.”

“I’d deserve my ass beat,” Gideon agreed.

Sam eyed Gideon’s phone.

“My car, my music.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I feel some kind of way, this topic with this soundtrack,” Sam said, wrinkling his nose.

“See, I get that,” Gideon said. “But I think you need to work on yourself. Love is love, ain’t that what they say?” He paused at a red light and grinned a little at Sam’s discomfort. “You got a guy, or you’re working on it?”

“Man, neither,” Sam said, folding his arms again. “It’s nothin’, we ain’t even talking yet.”

“But it’s a specific person,” Gideon prodded. “Catching feelings, Sam?”

“We are  _grown_ ,” Sam scolded. “What happened to minding your business?”

“You protest too much,” Gideon’s grin spread from ear to ear.

Sam scowled. “Next you’re breaking out the origami fortune teller and playing MASH or some shit, trying to guess.”

“Swearing while I’m trying to listen to my praise music,” Gideon lamented. “Disrespectful.”

Sam shook his head, but that did get him smiling again.

“It’s mostly women, right?” Gideon said. “Just men on occasion?”

“Almost exclusively women,” Sam said. “I’d say ninety-ten. And it’s more biromantic than bisexual, I think. I’m still learning the words.”

“I got a crash course three years ago when one of our youth leaders was losin’ it over his best friend being trans,” Gideon said. “He was real earnest, Sam. About broke me, this kid. Said he didn’t have room in his heart for a god who couldn’t love her.”

“What’d you do?” Sam asked.

“Helped him write his first sermon,” Gideon said. “Let him lead the youth service with it. Some of the other kids got uncomfortable, but he stared ‘em right down, voice as steady as anything. Made sure they saw me, though. Wanted them to know I supported those two.”

“Was she there?”

“She wasn’t much feeling us at the time,” Gideon said. “But once she felt safe, she came back. Stayed, too. Beautiful girl, makes me proud every day.”

Sam smiled faintly. “You probably tell her.”

“Course I do. I  _learn_ from these kids. So could you, if you felt like showing yourself more.”

“I’m a distraction,” Sam said.

“Not when you’re not in the wings,” Gideon disagreed. “Sam Wilson’s at least as much of a role model as the Falcon.”

Sam rolled his tongue through his lips. “You’re the second person to tell me something like that, lately.”

“It’s true,” Gideon said. “Besides, I need another baritone.”

“I am  _not_  joining the choir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gideon is teasing Sam with a line from the story about [the prodigal son](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+15%3A11-32).
> 
> [Gideon's](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/Gideon_Wilson_\(Earth-616\)) son, [Jim](http://marvel.wikia.com/wiki/James_Wilson_\(Earth-616\)), died of AIDS. How he contracted the virus is not explicitly described in the comics, and I chose not to give a theory here. 
> 
> Gideon's not just talking about Jim's death, he's also actively referencing the fact that LGBTQIA+ youth who are not supported by their families and communities have [a horrifyingly high suicide rate](https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/preventing-suicide/facts-about-suicide/), and saying that it's his responsibility as a pastor to make sure the kids in his congregation don't end up in that statistic.
> 
> Yolanda Adams, [The Battle Is Not Yours](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lN26jw53c0M)  
> Jonathan Butler, [I Stand on Your Word](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkDwaGf8eN4)
> 
> I like Butler's voice, I basically just let YouTube keep playing his stuff as I wrote, it was very soothing.
> 
>  **Rack** : The triangular equipment used for gathering the balls into the formation required by the game being played.


End file.
